Hot Yoga — Ancient Torture Practice Bizarrely Normalized in Modern “Health” Quest
There are moments in retrospect even Hitler had to say, “hmm, perhaps I’ve made a mistake.” From these learning experiences come necessary innovation: Fenced-in yards, childproof locks, sunscreen, condoms. As I emerged from my hellscape two hours later, I reflect: If I could take that back and do literally (literally) anything else (literally- garbage pick through used hypodermic needles, take the SAT three times in a row without bathroom breaks, go on a wilderness family counseling retreat with my idiot brother-in-law) I would say “yes, please, one-hundred times.”
I believe Hot Yoga is a sophisticated Japanese torture technique honed during the Qing Dynasty and perfected during the Korean War to undermine/destroy Western civilization. Slowly and methodically they’ve been infiltrating the yuppiest cities in America, integrating into the bullshit narrative of modern health and wellness in partnership with Lululemon, Nike, and Playtex. It’s the best application of nuisance Guerilla warfare and deserves its own chapter in The Art of War; convincing millions of people to lock themselves in a small cinder block room intentionally heated to 116 degrees with 90 percent humidity, holding ridiculous stances at five-minute intervals, coyly and ironically named after peaceful, mundane, even pleasant objects/people/concepts (happy baby, are you kidding me?). On paper- legit torture. Throw in a potted plant and incense? A BUSINESS. Making MONEY. From REAL PEOPLE.
The first ten minutes we sit Indian style humming in harmony, contemplating world peace, inner peace, touching our inner eye, eating our outer anger, loving our hatred, opening up to good karma and lost souls, forgiving ourselves for living a life of gluttony and sin.
It is far from pleasant, but from this half-trance survival mode, I stake I have a 75 percent chance of survival, which is honestly pretty good considering my precarious mental and physical state. But this, this is not Hot Yoga — this is “warm-up,” meditation, a childish precursor. Though the room is already softly lit and toasty, the Instructor (Ash-Leigh) leans against the wall to turn on a new switch, activating a few more ceiling-mounted globes, one of which is stationed directly over my head. Surely it must be broken. I reflect back to second grade and our classroom pet Lucky the Bearded Dragon, whose habitat included sand, dead crickets, and a heat lamp. It takes me three-point-five painful, confused minutes of denial to realize I am under a heat lamp. I am cooking in a deep fryer of regret and sadism. This is a human heat lamp. They are trying to smoke me out.
Me: Wait, is it hot in here? Shouldn’t they turn on the air?
The friend who suggested this “super fun workout class”: This is how hot it’s supposed to be
Me: What? No.
Friend: It’s called Hot Yoga.
Instructor: Ok, yogis, let’s get this party started!
Me: At least turn on the fans!
Friend: There are no fans! Shh, you’re distracting me.
Instructor: Speaking of parties, I hear we have a birthday girl in the house! Raise your hand, birthday girl!
Despite the depth of her lunge and strange binding of hands, a brunette strategically positioned front and center raises one hand and her flanking posse shares a small, unified cheer. She smiles smugly (as if a birthday is a personal accomplishment) and the instructor returns a bow of acknowledgment. I hate them both.
Instructor: Welcome, Namaste. We hope your year is full of reflection and calming strength. May the universe find and keep you through darkness and peace. Let’s start with a few sun salutations!
Me: But I am already in the sun.
Friend: SHHH.
As the class releases, Ash-Leigh brings me a bottle of water and, after much insistence that I am not yet dead, encourages me to take as much time as I need to extract myself from my sizzling mat. She leaves Friend with a lemon-scented cooling cloth (“no, she’s fine. We don’t need to take her to the ER, promise.”) and leaves us silent and alone in the torture chamber.
I take baby sips and flop back down, arms over my head in the one move I’ve mastered. “I’m not trying to be dramatic, but I think my braces generate more heat so my brain was abnormally hot.”
She leans back on her heels and daintily sops up beads of moisture from her face. “I don’t think…whatever. I don’t mean to be rude but maybe you should work out more. Get some blood flowing, taking up jogging. Because, you know, you could have like, died.” I remain firmly horizontal but weakly manage to dump the bottle of water over my face. Twenty-four ounces of lukewarm liquid stream over my eyes and hair, pooling with the nest of perspiration which forms a halo around my splayed ponytail.
“I’m not sure they’ll want their rental mat back. Maybe you should buy it,” she suggests and checks her industrial, sweatproof sports watch. “But I should probably get going. Do you want me to wait for you?”
I compose a list of realizations as I shamefully take the subway home, sliding around a plastic bench in a puddle of bodily fluids. It is a great internal debate: Public transportation where my humiliation and disgust is on display at 1:30 P.M. on a Saturday OR take a cab and let one individual make awkward rear-view mirror eye contact with me through twenty minutes of city traffic as I debate vomiting up a cloud of bacon, cheese, and the infant stage of Athlete’s Foot. The most anonymous option wins.
- What do Hitler, Satan, and Hot Yoga have in common? They are the same.
- Never again fall for the “super fun Saturday morning workout class” stunt.
- Take up MODERATE athletic routines so I don’t prematurely die when global warming finally wins.
- But God as my witness; never, ever Hot Yoga again.
